sure
the prodigal daughter has returned:
broke
and unbroken
with aches in her back, a soul worn in shoes
a heart full of light and a head full of losing stories
(that make so little sense in fractured conversation).
i have these diffused excitements that
still glisten like snow-globe glitter on skin,
kindred road-spirits mixed with healthy bits of playful sin
and i sit sit sit with them.
visions of mountains my feet have climbed, dewey
and so up high, you could just roll down the side-
shrines to God's who could not survive (no, not this time).
i've lived lives with so much beauty that cannot be described.
and so now
i've been home a little while.
from this dusty cottage room
i can only pay homage to my last life with lost photos
and crooked smiles.
i could go on for decades justifying why i keep running into the wild.
but how does one begin to grow roots that don't go on for miles?
